


Melt

by Cards_Slash



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Handcuffs, Ice Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: The ice had been for the beer.  But the beer was gone and the ice was not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> repost from LJ (2009)

The room was drenched in the smoky shadows of late evening as the last effort of the sun bled in the windows past the fluttering curtains. Everything was settling; the sweltering heat of the day, the restless noise of the bugs, the earth itself yawning as it basked in the sun-baked glory of the dying day. It was too hot for candles, too hot for shirts—it had been too hot in the sun all day. Bones’ shoulders felt reddened, sun-freckled, sensitive and almost burnt. His muscles were loose, relaxed; too hot to tense. 

The little trickle of sweat on the back of his neck where Spock’s thumb moved, to brush it off, to spread it down his spine, to sweep it to the side against the ridge of his shoulder blade. And his hands were too hot, far too hot against his skin. The whole world was still radiating heat like barely visible steam rising from the black paved roads. A fine shimmer as they’d walked back from the lake, still dripping wet and enjoying the peace of the day and familiarity of solid earth. Real gravity, real sun—

A real bed, real cotton sheets that were in bunches under his knees and under his hands as he spread his fingers because there wasn’t a single inch of him that wasn’t soaked in sweat. The air was too heavy, too wet. Spock’s tongue was too hot against his, his lips were just as heated and his body, between Bones’ thighs, was a slow cooking oven set to melt his skin off. Spock liked weather like this—Bones pulled away from the kiss, taking the dampness of their mouths, feeling it heavy on his lips as he lapped at it. The hands on his hips were moving up—wide palms and long fingers, he loved Spock’s hand, how careful they moved, how thoroughly they massaged every inch of his body. And up in space where everything was cold, they were the warmth he missed.

Bones sighed, forehead against Spock’s, his hair in wet strings tangling in Spock’s thick dry hair, he rubbed their noses together as his eyes slid closed because everything was damp and wet. Skin over skin was too much. Spock’s hands in his hair was too much, the little trickle of a breeze was nothing compared to the heat it brought.

Too damn hot. He ran his tongue across his lips again, tasted his own sweat and dragged his lips across Spock’s parted ones, both wet, slipping a little, a nuzzle that never became a kiss—smiled into the bitten back sigh of disappointment. Spock’s fingers were on his face now, two of them across his mouth, pushing inside just over his lips, against his teeth. He could taste the sandy brown dirt at the shore of the lake. Ran his tongue across the hard nails, licking the taste of the cherry juice from the corners, sucked on his too hot fingers as they slid deeper into his mouth and Spock groaned. Loved the sound of that, the way it vibrated deep in his chest, how he could feel it against his legs bent around Spock’s sides.

He let the fingers slip out of his mouth, lapped at Spock’s open mouth, teasing him—letting him get so close to that kiss, and just grinned. Kissed away the damp drops of his sweat falling onto Spock’s cheek, his chin, down on his neck.

“Leonard,” Spock said. So quiet, so cautious—he hadn’t adjusted to the fact that they were alone. That there were no cold walls, no neighbors, nobody to care. Just the curtains, the breeze, the bed under them. 

Bones caught the bar of the headboard, pulled himself up farther, knees across the cotton, searching for anywhere cooler and finding nothing but the relentless heat of Spock’s body. Sat back, weight balanced on his thighs—and too hot hands working up under his shorts. Spock’s eyes were dark, almost black in the low light, just as unforgiving as the thick wet air. Bones pushed his fingers through his hair, taking the time to drag the air into his lungs. “Arms up,” he said.

There was always that moment, the little quiver in the air when Spock’s breath hitched and his pulse jumped. Bones could feel that throb in his heart—could feel how it made his own breath heavy, how hard his own heart raced at the thought—of Spock agreeing or not. Of how slow Spock was to obey, how he pressed his hands tight against Bones’ skin, licking every inch he could the whole length of his fingers because he didn’t want to let go. His tongue would be deep green against his lips as his cheeks flushed and his hips would push up, searching for friction and finding nothing but the heavy air. 

God; Spock’s fingers were so pale against the black wrought iron of the headboard, lightly curled, just waiting—every muscle in his arms tense and the veins down his forearms jumping and throbbing as he watched. His eyes followed every move as Bones leaned to the side and picked the handcuffs up, another shiver at the scrape of the heavy metal against the wood, a little shudder at the jingle and a gasp when Bones pushed them against the bone at his wrist. Wrapped his own fingers around them to tighten the cuff. Not too tight. Bones ran one finger under, just to be sure and then passed the second cuff around the bar. The metal grated on itself as it slid shut around Spock’s wrist.

Spock’s hands were in hard fists; Bones’ hands were loose and grazing, falling down over the cool metal to hot skin and leaning his weight forward against it. Pushing Spock’s forearms against the bed as his knees slid back and he ducked his head down to kiss him. Sudden, rough clash of their mouths. His lips burned and his breath panted—he caught Spock’s tongue between his teeth, let him pull it free and then pressed one—two—three little kisses like apologies against his open mouth. His hands slid back up, the tips of his fingers brushing against the handcuffs. “If you break these,” he whispered into the shell of Spock’s ear, “we stop.”

Spock nodded, words choked in his throat, and Bones kissed him again. A slow thing, measured and even, drawing it out until the metal clinked against the headboard, until he felt Spock’s arms moving and then he pulled back. Sat back, the curve of his hips flush against Spock’s hips, feeling how hard he was through four layers of clothing; shook his hair and felt the sweat dripping down the nape of his neck again—rubbed his fingers over it as he shifted his weight back and forth, a little sway that couldn’t be counted as a grind, until Spock’s hips pushed up against him.

No, not yet. He leaned to the left, moved his leg so it was between Spock’s and reached for the bucket sitting in the puddle of condensation on the bedside table. Pulled it to the edge, cupped his fingers inside to get at the water melting off the ice and scrubbed it into his hair—all but moaned at the brief relief it brought. Spock hissed between his teeth at the spray of tiny drops across his skin, flinching away from it.

“Leonard,” he said quietly. 

The ice had been for the beer. But the beer was gone and the ice was not. Bones dug his fingers down until he found a piece, wiggled his finger in through the hole in the middle and pulled it out. “Hm?” he hummed. 

“I admit that I am—” His breath caught again when a fat drop of the icy water landed on his chest, just under his right nipple. Bones ran his thumb across the drop, smearing it down across his skin, thought that it should have sizzled—would have made sense—and then sucked the dampness off his thumb while he leaned forward. The ice was melting down his finger, almost gone as he rubbed it across Spock’s lower lip. Back and forth, to the corner of his mouth and then tracing the shape of his upper lip. Smiling at his careful stillness, smiling at his eyes growing darker as the pupils widened, and smiling at Spock’s tongue catching the fat drops of water, at how easy it was to push his finger with the last ring of the ice barely hanging on down against his tongue. 

He kissed him, just to feel the coolness of his lips. The metal jingled; displeased, when Bones sat back again. He dug for another piece of ice, one of the fatter pieces, one to hold pinched between his fingers. One that he ran down the pulsing length of the vein on Spock’s arm, watched his skin tighten at the chill.

“That is cold,” Spock whispered. And his voice was as hot as the day, crawling over his skin, settling into every little crease until there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t soaked. 

“What kind of cold?” he asked. Took his time rubbing little circles against the inside curve of Spock’s elbow—every pass of the ice made his whole body wriggle, made the thigh between Bones’ legs come up, made the hands trapped in the handcuffs tighten and then loosen while Spock weighed this decision—to break the metal—against the outcome. 

“I do not understand the question.”

“Is it,” Leonard pressed the last chip of the ice down with his thumb, slid it up the muscle taut under Spock’s skin until it was nothing but cool water, “the kind of cold that you feel in your bones?” He blew a cool breath across the wet tracks and Spock bit his lip to hide his little moan. “The kind that steals your breath?” He rubbed his cheek against the chilled skin, sensitive and raw now. His bristle-rough cheeks were warm and close to painful but Spock arched up against him, twisting to get at anything to press against. “Or,” spoken mostly into the crook of his elbow, “the kind that you wish for after long summer days; the kind that makes you think _oh fuck—finally_ as your eyes roll back in your head and its good…”

When he sat up to reach for the next ice cube, Spock’s eyes were closed and he was counting his breaths—bringing himself back down. Back to somewhere that logic and control were more important than sensation and desire. Bones caught another piece in his too cold, almost clumsy fingers and sucked the water off it, needed that. Needed to wet his mouth—needed Spock to watch him, to trace the water as it welled over his lips, as it dragged down his skin over his chin and if he tipped his head back, how it would shiver there just a second before running down his throat. And how he could close his eyes and sigh at it—

Too damn hot—needed another piece of ice, one hand splayed across Spock’s chest. Rubbing his thumb across the slick ice until the drops were heavy, until they fell, until Spock’s skin flinched and his tongue crossed his lips. Started at his collarbone this time, barely touching, just letting the little gasp of cool air brush; the intent was enough. Down the collarbone, over the breast bone, sliding across the gap between ribs and finally—finally—pressing the ice down. A slow, sure slip against Spock’s nipple. His back arched, off the bed as his hands caught the bed frame, the metal groaned as he twisted at it and Bones waited. 

“Leonard,” Spock said.

“I thought Vulcan nipples weren’t that sensitive,” he mumbled back. Bones waited for Spock to lay flat again, rocking himself down against his too hot thigh, shameless shift of his hips without giving anything back. Just this ice, moving it like he moved his tongue, pressing harder here, softer there, broadening the circle—his skin was green tinged from the chill, the nipple was hard now.

“In comparison to human sensitivity, they are not,” Spock answered.

“Mm,” Bones agreed and let the ice melt down Spock’s ribs, forgotten for the moment, dipped his head down and lapped at the puddle of water. Traced the circle he’d drawn, his mouth hot now that Spock’s skin was cold, and how that made him squirm. Used the tip of his tongue, a fine outline of his nipple, and Spock pushed his chest up—wanted the heat of his mouth, most days he hissed because it was cool. He grinned at the thought.

“Leonard.”

Bones moved back, caught the button of Spock’s pants, working it free and the zipper, curling his fingers under the waistband of both and tugging. “Lift up,” he ordered. 

Spock always knew what his intentions were; Bones’ thoughts tumbled into his every time their skin touched. In moments like this he was at war between letting it happen and stopping it; moments like this where his hands were tight on the cuffs, pulling them tight as if to snap them, when he stared back. And it felt like an electric tingle, not knowing and unsure, waiting to find out if Spock was going to give him his body or— And he lifted his hips and let Bones pull his pants down. 

He crawled up again, arms holding his weight off Spock, on his knees, leaning down just far enough to kiss; the hungry sort of thing, almost a whimper until he moved back. Grabbed the ice bucket again, soaked his hand in it, just watching Spock’s eyes, watching his tongue flick across his lips, feeling his thighs moving as his feet tried to find somewhere to plant themselves. His arms flexed and relaxed, his fingers curled and then tightened, and his breath came in those short, hurried little puffs.

Bones caught a piece of ice, not a big one, and slid back on the bed. Started on his thigh, down close to his hip, the ice was nearly gone, tracing up over the flinching skin, the hissing shudder of Spock’s body, up and tangling in the short, coarse black hair, making an incomplete circle, pausing there, reconsidering.

“Leonard,” Spock mumbled again.

“Spock,” he returned evenly. The ice was gone now, nothing but water in thick hair but his hand was still cold and wet when he coiled his fingers around Spock’s erection. He came off the bed then, shouting a curse in Vulcan, and pulling at the metal bar on the bed hard enough it squealed in objection. “Shhhh,” Bones whispered and moved his hand, cold as his fingers were against too hot skin—freezing, just short of painful, Spock moved against it and away from it, falling back against the bed even as his legs moved restlessly, trying to knock him away and cradle him closer. “Shh,” he whispered again and let his hand fall away. On his elbows, licking the trail he’d left, starting at Spock’s thigh, up and around and lifting himself up.

Spock was never cold, never cool, never anything but hot against his tongue, across his lips—Bones was always the cooler one. He wondered now, as Spock arched up to sink deeper into his mouth, if it felt something like Spock’s mouth felt on him. The heat that tingled and almost burned, just shy of too hot but delicious all the same and he always wanted more. 

“Yes,” was a pant, and he looked up. Saw the stretch of Spock’s throat as he tipped his head back, the pretty green flush of his skin. The soft undulation of his body starting with a shiver in his shoulders down over his arching ribs, his tightening belly and his hips rocking up. Wanting more, wanting warmth— “Yes.” Moving on blind instinct, hardening, skin flushing hotter inside Bones’ mouth as that strange, almost bittersweet taste started leaking across his tongue, until those rocks were more like thrusts and Spock’s foot was flat on the bed as he worked his hips. 

Bones moved back then—lips tingling, too hot. The air brought no relief, just as hot.

“I do not like it when you do that,” Spock said. Every word was heavy with air, with a pulse that had been so close to right there, his face turned to one side and his eyes closed. 

No, he didn’t like it, but he opened his eyes when Bones stood up off the bed, caught the top of his swimming trunks to push them down over his sweat-tacky skin. The curtains were moving again, the breeze was almost cool enough to be relief. He dipped his hand into the ice bucket again, scrubbed it through his hair just to feel it dripping on his shoulders. Blissful and sinful— He caught the jar they’d left sitting on the bedside table that morning, back when they were optimistic and the air was still cool, when they’d rolled around like fools, fighting for who came out on top.

The lid was barely screwed on, fell to the floor, rolled away and he didn’t care, Spock was watching him. Eyes half-closed, pupils wide and black and his pretty green tongue across his lips as he pulled his long legs up—he wouldn’t say it yet, not out loud, but he would say it with his body. An unspoken _fuck me_. 

Yes. 

Soon, first this, on his belly, fingers knuckle deep in Spock’s body, elbow moving in slow precision as he slid his mouth slow as honey along restless skin already flushed green. This, as his tongue traced the length of Spock’s erection, as the skinny leg over his arm rubbed against his side, the hard heel urged him on and Spock’s voice was tumbling broken little moans until the room was stifling and it was just too much. But he kept going, pumping his fingers, three of them, slick and slippery, driving back into the heat and tight clench—licking his own lips, tasted bittersweet, tasted like Spock right before he came, that last shivering second when his mouth fell open and his eyes closed and everything was suddenly—

Gone. 

“Bastard,” Spock spat at him, arms yanking down so fast the handcuffs tore into his skin. The metal groaned and nearly broke. Bones just smirked—up on his knees and crawling up again. Catching Spock’s mouth to kiss him, to share the taste, his amusement, Spock’s need and anger. That close, his whole body was thrumming with the mindless need and Bones was there and not touching. Toying with him, a human torture—a pointless, ridiculous, stupid human torture. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Bones asked into the hard bone of his jaw. Scrapping his teeth across it while Spock hooked his legs around him, slippery as he was they wouldn’t stay but Spock tried, tried to pull him down, tried to find the friction he needed. He was that close and it was just a little— Bones sucked on his neck, left little green-tinged marks down to his collar, moved his hands down, thumbs hooking in against Spock’s hipbones and shoving him flat on the bed.

A low moan over the edge of teeth, Spock bucked against his hands and shook his head. “Yes,” wringing into the air. “Yes,” again. “Yes, fuck me.”

God.

Bones curled his hands around the underside of Spock’s thighs, pushing them up as they moved willingly, eagerly moving to let him get his arms under, one hand on the bed, the other slicking himself and holding, slid through his own grip and deep into Spock. 

It all shivered then: his tired too-warm muscles, Spock’s control, the metal of the cuffs, the heat of the day around them fighting for control. The sweat dripping out of his hair, down his back, the long thick muscle of Spock’s thigh, his breath and heart, the arch of their bodies coming together at last. His forehead against hard shoulder, the little begging breath breezing against his scalp; more please, more.

So he straightened his arms, knees digging into the bed, hips rocking slow as the breeze sneaking across the room, as slow as the sun-baked earth settling—slow as the tension coiling, slow as the sweat trickling on his back, taking his sweet damn time because it was too hot to work fast. Because Spock squirmed, flexed his legs, moaned in his throat and flushed as green as summer grass—canted his hips back, worked his hips side to side and back, tightened his body around Bones until it damn near hurt, and arched his back as he started to shake. Bones moved slow, left kisses against his thigh as he sank back into him. Watched his arms, watched the links of the cuffs being slowly pulled apart by the constant pressure—not broken, not yet, like that bruised-looking skin on Spock’s wrists wasn’t broken open yet. 

“Please,” the word drenched, quivering. “Please. I need—” But Spock hadn’t ever figured out what he needed, only that it was there, that it was a need and not a want, and couldn’t be ignored or worked out or explained by logic.

“Faster?” Bones asked.

“Yes.”

“Or harder?”

“Both,” Spock said. “Both, now.”

Another kiss, crushed together like they were, Spock’s legs sliding down off his arms, hooking around his ribs, holding him tight enough to bruise and slipping in sweat anyway. He dropped to his elbows, fists in the sheets and pulled them as his knees dug in, as he thrust forward harder, made that cry rip from Spock’s throat—at last, yes, this, at _last_.

He fucked him, bodies sliding together, legs slipping on his ribs—fucked him hard until they were moving on the sheets, until Spock’s hands against the headboard was all that kept them from knocking their heads on it—until the shiver was back like a shudder and it was a beautiful thing. Until he was so close he couldn’t find his own thoughts, swirling around in a storm, until Spock was wet against his stomach, leaving streaks of heat hotter than the day. Until their faces were rubbing together, tongues finding one another messily, again and again, lips working around kisses that weren’t and his name was a quiver of Spock’s voice praising him as—

“Don’t come,” Bones gasped. A whimper back against his cheek. (Oh fuck.) Gone, no way to hold back, buried deep in Spock’s body, hearing that whimper echoing on his skin and gone—

“Leonard,” like a little writhe under him. And he nodded his head, kissed Spock’s temple, his ear, his throat, lapping at hard-earned sweat, the dip in his collarbone, traced his tongue down his breastbone, kissed down the line of muscle, lapped at the short dark hairs and panted for breath, forehead against hipbone as he stroked his hand lazily up and down Spock’s rubbed thighs, the skin raw and sensitive. Wondered if he could make him come from just that; thought he probably could—wasn’t that mean, got himself back up on his elbows, licking his lips and looked back up—Spock’s hair was in a mess, his head cocked to one side, half-resting on his tense arm, trying to see, trying not to beg again. He would, if that was what Bones wanted—he licked his lips again. Pressed his fingers back inside Spock, slipping on the lube and his own come, drinking down the gasp before he ducked his head and took Spock into his mouth again. Pulsing and hot, hips thrusting up into his mouth, pushing in deep as he sucked and then back onto his fingers, wriggling for just _right there_ and—

Bones swallowed, still working his fingers, enjoying the restless writhe of Spock’s body moving until it was too much, too sensitive and he moved up. To collapse at his side, searching for the key of the cuffs but it must have gotten lost. “Just break them,” he said instead. Too lazy to move any more.

Spock jerked his arms again and the links between the cuffs snapped. He let his arms fall down at his sides, one on his chest lazily as they absorbed the heat. “We could close the window and activate the climate control,” Spock mumbled.

“It’s good,” Bones mumbled back. “Leave it.” And rolled close just long enough to share a kiss, maybe two, and then a third before falling back to his side. Too hot to move.


End file.
